


This Isn't A Fucking Fairytale

by evannalyce



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Canon-Typical Violence, Derogatory Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mpreg, References to Drugs, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26576734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evannalyce/pseuds/evannalyce
Summary: Ian's left for the army, not realizing what he's left behind. And Mickey's just trying to deal with it.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 28
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's pissed off. He hates his new role as a husband, soon-to-be father, and well, everything, really.

It was sometime past 10:00 am when a knock sounded at the front door of the Milkovich house.

The air smelled of coffee, alongside crisping bacon and ham, heaping mounds of fried potatoes and eggs, and the ever-present aroma of cigarette smoke.

Terry Milkovich--head of household and certified jackass--griped as he pressed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it. He then glanced over at his daughter, who had just sat down at the dining room table.

"Mandy, get the fucking door." He grumbled, after taking a drag off of the cigarette and blowing out a plume of smoke.

Pursing her lips, Mandy glanced over at her two brothers sitting beside her, but ultimately said nothing. From her position at the bottom of the family totem pole, it wasn't uncommon for her to be singled out.

Begrudgingly, she rose from her chair. Meanwhile, her older brother was in a hell of a mood.

Grasping at a handful of junk mail, Mickey Milkovich furrowed his eyebrows.

"This is a bunch of bills, chink delivery menus, and press-on nail coupons. What mailboxes you robbing? Dearborn projects?" 

His blue eyes looked scathingly over toward his brother, Colin, who only mumbled dumbly.

"No, apartment complex over by Rush," he explained, looking over the junk mail on the table.

Mickey rubbed at his eyebrow, feeling a dark sense of awe for the giant, blond-haired dope. He was taller, bigger, and older than Mickey, sure--but it was a wonder he could even change his Pampers by himself.

"Oh, there's an ATM card," Colin said then, hoping for a chance at redemption. Mickey only looked at him, amazed.

Mickey may be the smallest Milkovich--with a fiery, take-no-shit temper and all--but at least he made up for it with actual intelligence. His father, Terry, was street smart, he knew about _logistics,_ and Mickey's brothers were smart enough to nod their heads as he barked orders. Mickey, however, was good at _solving._

"Congratulations, it has no fucking PIN number." He spat, gesturing toward the letter held by this brother. "What are you gonna do, rob the same mailbox every day until they send a PIN?" He shot Colin a scowl.

Then, turning back to the other issue at hand, Mickey eyed a brunette woman that had just walked out of the kitchen. She held a coffee cup in one hand, and her swollen stomach with the other.

_Svetlana._ His wife.

Otherwise, known as the wrench in all of his hopes and dreams, and the episode of Maury where he _didn't_ get to jump up and dance because _he was not the father._

"Hey. You." He gestured in her direction, a stack of dollar bills in his hand. It made her eyes dart upwards, an anxious look moving across her face. He didn't care.

"This is all you made yesterday," he questioned.

"I give you everything," she was quick to answer, her Russian accent thickening her words.

Mickey's eyebrows rose even more. "Two hundred twenty bucks?" He questioned, "How many Johnsons you squash?"

"…seventeen?" Svetlana answered, taking her place at the table across from him.

Doing the math in his head, Mickey's eyes widened, disbelieving. "That's like… twelve bucks a wank,"

Sure, his wife was a pregnant, dead-eyed Russian hand-whore, but for twelve bucks? Carpal tunnel syndrome and a sore jaw was at least worth a Jackson, right?

He shook his head, annoyed.

"You're extra bitchy today," Terry remarked from the kitchen, to which Mickey said nothing. Because yes, he was. He'd been in a foul mood ever since his eyes had opened that morning, and it wasn't just because he'd woken up next to a woman he hated.

He was quick to change the subject when Mandy arrived back at the table.

"Who was at the door?" He asked as soon as she'd taken her seat.

"Debbie Gallagher," she said, timid like she'd just received some bad news. 

Mickey's ear perked at the name Gallagher. "What'd she want?" He asked.

"She was looking for Ian," Mandy told him, and Mickey responded a little too quickly.

"Seen him?" He asked, keeping his face still as he passed plates of food around the table. 

"Why do you care?" She asked, pointedly, and Mickey could have spit. 

Instead, though, he grabbed another letter and ripped it open. "I don't," he answered, not looking at her.

He didn't need to, to see the defeated look on her face. She wore it a lot these days.

"…she said Lip was doing well in college,"

Mickey didn't have anything to say to that. Because of course, it was just _so_ nice that the smug know-it-all that was Philip Gallagher had made it out of Chicago's dumpster fire. At least the little fucker wasn't around to stick his fucking Irish chode into his little sister anymore.

Although from behind him, he could practically feel his sister's current meat puppet bristle at her mentioning another male. He didn't know where the fuck she'd found the guy--named _Kenyatta,_ of all things. He was dark-skinned, tall, built like a linebacker, and quiet--and Mickey didn't care to acknowledge him most days.

Today, however, the behemoth had set a pot of baked beans onto the table, and Mickey felt his nose shrivel up.

The motherfucker liked to put them on his _toast,_ of all things. Like a fucking Englishman. And even though Mickey had initially written it off as _weird_ and kept it moving, today his senses were having none of it.

"Jesus," he griped, bringing a hand to cover his offended nostrils while stifling a gag. The smell was sickeningly sweet and overpowering enough to make him forget about his own plate in front of him.

He pushed it away, staring down at his eggs as if they'd offended him.

"Fuck's up with you?" He heard, making his face twist up. It was Mandy who'd asked, even though he could feel the rest of the table looking at him.

He eyed the pot of beans like it was a vat of maggots writhing in front of him.

"The fuck you _do_ to that shit?" Mickey choked out, trying his best to swallow back the bile that crept it's way up to his throat.

Kenyatta gave him a look as if he'd grown another head.

"It's… just beans, Mickey," Mandy agreed, to which Mickey just grimaced and got up from his chair.

And meanwhile, he felt Terry looking at him. His face was scrunched up and glowering, as if he couldn't figure out why Mickey acted like such a _bitch_ sometimes.

"Jesus, what's your problem?" Terry spat out, looking up at Mickey like he'd just ashed a cigarette out on his fucking ham. "You on the rag or something?"

And Mickey felt his middle finger twitch. 

Fuck this. He didn't have to put up with this _shit._

So, like the beaten-down pansy that he was, he stalked his way to his bedroom and kicked the door shut.

"Fuck you too, Pops." He muttered to himself as he sat on the edge of his bed, meanwhile running his hands over his face.

Fuck, he was irritated.

He needed a joint to calm his nerves. Maybe make him feel a little lighter. Maybe get the smell of brown sugar out of his nose.

Not that it would be much of a triumph. His room already reeked of his wife's cheap-ass vanilla perfume and the gingerbread-scented fucking _candles_ he hated. 

It didn't stop him from lighting up, though.

And after a few moments, after he'd stretched out and taken a few puffs, letting the haze settle in a little, he found himself thinking about earlier.

About Debbie Gallagher, and how she apparently had the audacity to come knocking on their door at 10:30 am. 

There were seven Gallagher's in total--at least officially. Debbie was one of the younger ones that he'd never had much to do with. She'd just be _there,_ sometimes, trailing along with Lip. Or Ian.

Lip Gallagher was something--he had a brilliant mind that only had to work only half as hard as Mickey's to get the same result. And had enough arrogance to make Mickey's fist ball up.

Ian, on the other hand, wasn't hard to be around. Wasn't hard to notice, either, with a head of fiery red hair and a face full of freckles--the odd one out in the Gallagher clan.

He and Ian had been friends, once upon a time-- _before._ He'd gotten to know him after he'd almost beaten the shit out of the lanky fucker for pushing up on Mandy, years ago.

That was before he'd figured out that she was full of shit. She'd given him some sort of excuse along the lines of a 'misunderstanding,' but Mickey had known what it really was.

Gallagher was a fucking queer, and Mandy just hadn't read the signs.

Dumb bitch.

He hadn't heard from him in months, though. And apparently, Debbie was looking for him, which meant she hadn't either. It made Mickey's stomach give a sick little _twist_ at the thought.

Because, well. Mickey knew _why._

With a sigh, Mickey glanced over at the candle on Svetlana's bedside. He watched the little flame flicker as it burned.

That was before he walked around and blew it out, extinguishing it into pale gray smoke.

And in that instant, he realized that he didn't really want to be _here_ anymore. 

\--

He found himself at the Alibi an hour later, seated at the counter with two other fuckheads and the bartender, Kevin Ball. He had a beer in front of him, which had the decency to look golden and saint-like as it stared up at him.

He'd been bullshitting with Kev for the past five minutes.

"I don't even think that's minimum wage, man." He griped, cracking an egg on the rim of his glass, and dropping it in. "There's gotta be, like, a law or something, right?"

Kev answered him, meanwhile lifting up an empty keg to his chest. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure there is, but I don't think it covers _hand jobs."_ He said pointedly, making Mickey's lips purse.

He reached for a lonely bottle of Tabasco, not appreciating the other man's sarcasm.

"Twelve bucks a wank," he continued, deciding not to quip back. "That's all she makes… on a fucking good day." 

Beside him, Tommy was giving him a disbelieving look. "Jesus, really?" He questioned, "I've been paying thirty at that Thai place,"

Mickey's eyes flicked over to the man next to him.

He held a hand out, gesturing, "Yeah, but that's because Sasha charges the customers a shit-ton more, and then deducts _all this stuff_ from the girls' pay. Laundry, rent, janitorial, _utilities,"_

"She even charges for the Purell and mouthwash." He finished, pulling a spurned look on his face.

Mickey's stomach even flipped at the mention of Svetlana's pimp. He may not have had a choice in marrying a prostitute, but she was still worth more than the chump change that _commie bitch_ paid her with.

He was just about to take a sip of his beer when another man to his right spoke up. "They need a union to protect their rights,"

Amused, Kev interjected, "Yeah, the International Brotherhood of Hand Wankers and Cock Suckers." He joked, "I'd love to see that sign on the side of a building downtown."

"Why not?" The man to Mickey's right questioned.

Kev only dipped his head to the side, "Hey. Make one hell of a picket sign, though, huh?" He smiled, clearly having fun. "Whores United for Handy J. Justice!" He exclaimed, motioning as if he were holding up a sign.

"Wankers of the World, Unite!" Tommy chimed in, making a jacking off motion with his hand. 

Mickey only rolled his eyes, not really enjoying the conversation. And if he was honest, he wasn't really enjoying the taste of the beer in his hand, either. It tasted metallic somehow, which was weird.

Anyhow, he held the rim up to his lips, ready to take another gulp.

First, though, he changed the subject. "You hear from Gallagher?" He asked casually, earning a "Frank? No." from Kevin.

"Thought Frank was dead," Tommy interjected, making Mickey's face screw up.

Idiots. 

"Not fucking Frank. The other one. The redhead."

Why the fuck would he mean Frank, anyway? The fucker only skated through whenever he had a disability check in hand.

"Ian?" Kev questioned as he walked over to the phone, which had just begun to ring. "No, he took off. What, did he owe you money or something? Hello." He said into the receiver, and Mickey set his beer down.

He tried not to look like a wounded dog from Kev's dismissal. _No, he took off._

He spent the next few minutes staring down into the glass, watching the bubbles fizz and pop to distract himself.

And a few moments after that, he became vaguely aware of everyone gaping at the TV above his head. They talked animatedly and exchanged looks at each other, but he didn't hear anything they said.

\--

He abandoned his plans to get drunk by lunch after downing the last few sips of his beer. And after taking a shot in honor of some guy named Stan--the bar owner who apparently wasn't doing well--Mickey had decided that he'd had enough. The alcohol wasn't giving him the same warmth and slick satisfaction that it usually did. 

He'd dropped the shot glass onto the counter with a certain sense of triumph anyway, before he'd wiped his hand over his mouth and shouldered on his coat.

He killed most of his time wandering and collecting dues from crackheads, and lighting cigarette after cigarette to keep him warm.

By the time 3:00 pm rolled around, he'd had a successful venture. Even had a fat wad of cash rolled up in his pocket to prove it. He'd made it under the 'L' by then, with nothing better to do but to head back home.

And, as luck would have it, he'd even stumbled across one Gallagher in question on his way, passed out with his face in the dirt.

The guy had a pool of vomit to one side of his face, and an empty bottle of Jim Beam at the other.

_Typical,_ he thought.

"Frank," he prompted, as he kicked the man's side. "You dead?"

The kick had earned him a groan from the other, to which he only nodded his head. Frank Gallagher was a real winner, that was for sure.

_"No,_ I'm not _dead."_ Frank spat at him, his eyes closed as his lips curled out the words.

_Cool,_ Mickey thought. At least he didn't have a dead body on his conscience today.

And just about as he was about to step over Frank's limp frame, the man groaned again. He pushed himself up from the ground, blinking around as he tried to get his bearings. Then he looked up, taking Mickey in for a few moments, before closing his eyes with a smirk.

"Mickey… Milkovich, as I live and breathe," he mused, to which Mickey only rolled his eyes.

"Just fucking barely, from where I'm standing." He quipped back.

Slowly, Frank moved to sit up. He then reached into his pocket without any other care in the world, and pulled out a joint and a lighter.

"Always so pleasant," Frank remarked, to which Mickey only blinked. "Which reminds me. How's the _wife_ treating you?"

Mickey chose not to acknowledge the little jab. He could kick him again, but. _Nah._

Instead, he opted to watch as Frank lit the joint and took a few puffs before looking back up.

"I don't suppose you have anything on you," he said, hopeful Mickey might have a few grams of powder on him, most likely.

Mickey snorted.

"You got money, Frank?"

Frank sputtered at that, like he always did when he was full of shit. "You know, Mickey, I _actually_ gave my last to my dear son Carl. Great lad. You know--"

Mickey cut him off by snagging the joint out of Frank's hand. The other man protested, but Mickey ignored him. He brought it to his own lips, taking a puff, meanwhile delivering Frank a steel glare.

"Not a chance, fucker." He said, guileless, and growing a bit bolder. "What about the other one? Seen him around?"

Frank only scoffed, scratching at the back of his neck. "Lip? He's... off at college." He said with a wave of his hand as if Mickey should know this.

Mickey cocked his head to the side, shooting a short breath out of his nose. 

"The _other_ one, Frank."

It took Frank a second or two. And then, he could almost _feel_ the grin that split Frank's lips. 

He nodded. "Ah, right. Ian. _The uh..."_ he trailed off, making air quotes with one hand.

And Mickey stared down at him, his blue eyes tipped like daggers as he _dared_ the man on the ground to say what he was thinking.

He had planned to kill the motherfucker, once. For seeing something he wasn't supposed to see. He'd had his gun out, ready. And at the sight of Frank's shit-eating fucking _grin,_ Mickey regretted not taking the shot.

"Sorry," Frank said finally, still smiling. "Haven't seen him." 

Mickey felt his lip curl up. But instead of getting angry like he thought he would, he just became kind of tired. 

And so, he ignored Frank's outstretched hand, clearly expecting Mickey to pass the joint back to him. He pointedly took another drag and kept it while continuing his walk back home.

Frank Gallagher could eat his ass.

\--

The headache started as soon as he'd hung up his coat.

His two brothers, Colin, Iggy, and his cousin Jamie were lumped together like cavemen on the living room couch, their eyes glued to the TV screen, and their mouths hanging open. Iggy even had a Cheeto Puff sticking to his lower lip as if he'd forgotten it there.

Mickey couldn't help but stare at them. Bunch of fucking _dildos,_ honestly.

He didn't even try to hide his irritation. 

"Savin' that for later, Numbnuts?" He said, kicking the end of the couch where Iggy sat.

Iggy only glanced at him. "Wha--? Oh fuck," he said when the Cheeto ended up falling into his lap.

He reached for it and shoved it back in his mouth, not taking his eyes off of Mickey in the meantime.

"Oh my God," Mickey griped, not quite sure if he should laugh or be ashamed of the guy. Either way, he found himself shaking his head as he turned toward the dining room.

He saw food still sitting on the table, and his stomach was immediately interested.

Iggy seemed intent on keeping his attention, though, as he turned in his position on the couch. He watched as Mickey took to shoving bits of breakfast potatoes into his mouth before he spoke up. 

"Hey, did you hear about this shit on the news?"

Mickey only furrowed his eyebrows, giving his brother _an are-you-stupid_ look.

"No," he started, watching Iggy's eyes as they lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

"Yo. It's _crazy,_ man-"

Mickey scratched at his nose before cutting him off.

"Yeah, great, I don't really care," he said shortly, feeling the radiating sting of a migraine moving behind his eyes. He really wasn't interested in hearing who won the lottery, who got gunned down in the street today, or, as a darker afterthought, who got blown up in _Afghanistan,_ or wherever. 

_No thanks._

He watched as Iggy's eyebrows fell into a straight line.

"You on the rag or something?"

Mickey only gave him the finger in response, while reaching for a leftover slice of ham.

That was about the epitome of the Milkovich brand of insults--he was a girl, he was a _bitch,_ he was a _bitch_ on her period--same fucking shit. 

And he wasn't about to lie to anyone. He was kind of a moody guy, but. He was sure that if he only thought about shoving his hand down his pants for 14 straight hours of the day, he could be more carefree like his brothers. That hadn't _exactly_ been his primary focus lately, though.

Despite himself, though, he gave a quick glance at the TV for a second, enough to see a man sitting in front of the camera with his face blurred out. It didn't really interest him. 

Mickey sighed while rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. He was tired, his head hurt, and maybe it was just better if he took a fucking _nap._

And as he chewed idly on the ham, he decided that yes, a nap sounded fucking amazing. 

He turned to the three lumps on the couch. "'Ey, do me a favor and keep that shit down?" 

And just before he was about to step through the threshold to his bedroom, he stopped himself. 

He glanced back toward the living room. And, without much thought, he leaned over the back of the couch and snatched the bag of Cheeto Puffs out of Colin's hands.

"Hey man--"

"--what the fuck?" He and Iggy protested at the same time, not that Mickey cared.

"Snooze, ya lose, faggots."

With that, he headed back to his room and closed the door behind him.

\--

For the two hours Mickey slept, he dreamt of explosions. The sun floated in a sky of mushroom clouds. He dreamt of an orange landscape, sand, and of military vehicles and tanks. He dreamt of a soldier patrolling in the desert sun, his rifle pointed at the dirt below his feet.

There was gunfire, and chaos, and screaming. And all the while, the soldier kept walking, in a disarming show of putting one foot ahead of the other, slowly, purposefully.

Marching into chaos.

\--

Svetlana had come home at just about the same time Mickey had sat down in front of the TV, a beer in hand. She'd barely taken two steps in from the cold, and he'd had his hand outstretched, with the can of Old Style up against his lips. 

And when she'd handed him the two hundred dollars she'd made sucking fifteen dicks that day, he'd nearly popped a fucking blood vessel.

"This is all they gave you?" He questioned her, counting out the bills for the third time.

"Everything," she'd answered, standing awkwardly off to the side as Mickey shot literal fire out of his asshole.

"Sasha's dicking us around," he told her, absolute. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, thinking.

"What are you going to do?" Svetlana questioned him, making his eyes flick toward hers. 

"What am I gonna do?" He asked as he pushed up from the couch. "I'll tell you what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna go down there tomorrow and make Sasha understand that you're a _hooker,_ not a slave."

He took a few paces away from her, feeling his budding ache and _disdain_ for the world around him bloom into a crimson fucking _rose._

And then he saw the pack of Oreos on the table.

He reached down and grabbed three, taking the first one and biting it in half without any thought.

Meanwhile, Svetlana was shaking her head at him.

"Sasha will not listen to you," she said, but Mickey wasn't having any of it. He held up a hand as he chewed furiously.

"Well, _Sasha_ hasn't fucking met me. I don't _ask_ nice. I do _business,_ or I shoot shit up." He replied, absolute, before adding, "What, do you _like_ going to work with a stiff jaw for a measly two hundred bucks?"

Svetlana only looked at him, her expressionless blue eyes meeting his own. "I was never given choice." She said simply. 

And Mickey stood still for a moment, just looking at her. 

In truth, he'd never really felt bad for her. More so just annoyed with her _existence,_ with _him,_ in this _house,_ about to drop a crotch goblin that he didn't fucking want.

It wasn't like he'd hit the lottery. They both hadn't. 

"Yeah, well," he trailed off with a shake of his head, before heading into the kitchen.

He could lament about the sad status of his life later. This was about _respect._ And right now, he wasn't fucking getting any.

And, later that night, Mickey had taken a stand.

Over the bathroom toilet.

In an attempt to tide over his hatred of everyone around him, he'd raided the kitchen and stuffed his face with pretty much anything that looked remotely appetizing. Which made up of three pickles, half a jar of peanut butter, leftover bacon from breakfast, and a mouthful of spray cheese, to name a few. 

And after he'd grossed out everyone in the entire household, felt pretty damn good about himself. He felt satiated. Calm.

Until, of course, it all came welling back up his throat a good twenty minutes later. 

He wiped his mouth over the back of his hand as he flushed it down, feeling a little beside himself. Something had been off with him for the last few weeks, he knew, but he was only now starting to feel the full force of it.

He felt _sick._

Maybe it was just stress, he thought. He had a lot going on. And stress could make someone sick,

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey makes a few business moves, and finds out some disturbing information.

Okay, so really, it's not that Mickey _hates_ his wife.

He just hates that he _has_ a wife. He hates that he has a _wife_ who sleeps in the same bed with him, eats at the same dinner table, and generally just takes up space in his head, his home. 

He _hates_ that he's 19, still a fucking teenager, and his life is already over with. He'd shot one fucking load into her. It's bullshit.   
  
Still, he doesn't _hate_ her. Not _really._   
  
It could be worse. She doesn't talk too much and makes minimal efforts to annoy him. Mostly, it seems like she just tries to keep her head down and stay out of the way.   
  
And, he knows. He _knows_ that marrying him hadn't been Svetlana's ticket to the good life. She'd basically traded a Russian brothel for a drug den--one that she'd eventually raise her kid in. Maybe it wasn't a _good_ deal per se, but it had to be better than sleeping on a cum-stained mattress every night.  
  
Mickey understood that. He _did._ However, _understanding_ it was one thing. It still didn't make anything easier--didn't make the episode of _Maury_ go away.  
  
And he'd get reminders. Some nights, before they went to bed, Svetlana would roll over and stare at him with her dead eyes, and ask,  
  
"You want to have sex?"  
  
It wasn't a heat of the moment thing. Or even because there was any friction between them, ever. Mickey got the sense that she asked as a way of checking in, wondering why he never made a move on her. And truthfully, Mickey never did because no--he _didn't_ want to.  
  
And okay, on the outside looking in, it was strange. He had a good-looking woman laying next to him, ready and willing to do anything he wanted her to do, and still, he kept his hands to himself. Didn't even flinch. Didn't _want._   
  
Because even though she felt fine when he'd slip inside her-- _good enough,_ at least--the cold truth was, he wasn't attracted to her. His hands just went stiff around her soft curves, his fingertips numb against her skin, like she was nothing. He _felt_ nothing.   
  
He'd wake up the next morning on the far side of the bed, and he'd listen to the soft sounds of her breathing. He'd watch the steady rise and fall of her chest, maybe look closely enough to see her stomach move. And still, feel _nothing._   
  
Which, was one reason why when he woke up that morning, he'd been relieved to wake up to an empty bed.  
  
The second reason was that he shot out of there like a bat on steroids, feeling like his bladder was ready to explode. He'd gotten caught in a tangle of bedsheets in the process, nearly tripping over in a giant heap.   
  
"Shit," he muttered to himself as he hopped on one foot, trying his best not to piss himself as he kicked the offending sheets away. Once he was free, he darted over to the bathroom, cursing a few expletives as he went. 

When he was met with a closed door, he could have punched the wall. He reached for the handle and jiggled it, before swearing again. 

Fucking locked.  
  
"Hey!" He yelled, banging his fist on the door. "Clear the fuck out--I gotta piss!"  
  
"Fuck off, asshole!" Mandy yelled back. 

Mickey scoffed, feeling a little like lighting her bed on fire.  
  
Banging on the door once more, he tried again, "Open the fuck up, bitch! Or I'm springin' a leak on the fuckin' carpet!"  
  
It only took half a second of incessant banging before he heard an exasperated sigh from the other side.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" She griped before the lock on the door popped.  
  
Mickey didn't waste any time as he shoved the door open, nearly knocking Mandy backward over the tub in his rush.  
  
"Fuck!" She complained, catching herself on the shower curtain rod before she could topple over. "What the fuck's your deal?!"  
  
When Mickey didn't answer her, opting to just reach into his boxers to whip his dick out, she gave him a disgusted scoff before adverting her eyes.  
  
"Next time, just go pee out the window, shithead." She told him, exiting the bathroom.  
  
\--  
  
Mickey let out a satisfied sigh as he stood in the doorway a few minutes later, tying the strings of his sweatpants as the toilet _whooshed_ behind him. 

He yawned, stretching in place as he thought about sleeping off a few more hours.   
  
And sure, he had shit to do today--skulls to crack, names to take, that whole dance--but the thought of crawling back into a warm bed burrito-style sounded better than going outside, into the cold.  
  
As he meandered his way down the hallway, though, the distinct smell of sausage frying caught the attention of his stomach. He found himself hooking a right toward the kitchen instead, the thought of _food_ giving his insides a happy little kick.  
  
His eyes settled on Svetlana first. She sat at the dining table, her usual cup of coffee in hand, as she flipped through a book of coupons. Mickey watched as she took an idle sip, not bothering to acknowledge him as he walked past.  
  
Mandy stood at the kitchen stove, stirring a skillet of eggs on one burner, while the sausage sizzled on the other. A plate of bacon stood off to the side, draining onto a paper towel.  
  
He was immediately in a better mood when he saw them, and shamelessly reached over to snag three strips.  
  
"Help yourself," Mandy grumbled, to which Mickey only shrugged.  
  
"Fuckin' hungry," he said in response, savoring the taste of the slightly charred fat. "What, you makin' this for someone else?" He added, leaning back against the countertop adjacent to her.  
  
That earned him an eye roll, and he smirked at her.  
  
Then, he surveyed the empty landscape in front of him, eyes searching the vacant living room. 

Usually, when no one was home this early in the morning, it meant that they were out on a run. Selling guns, probably. And Mickey couldn't' help but feel grateful--not having Terry or his lump-head brothers grating on his nerves for a few days was enough to get him at least a _little_ excited.  
  
Mandy, however, was acting a little strange.  
  
She looked tense like she was trying her hardest not to make eye contact with him. And she was quiet, which wasn't _totally_ out of the norm for her, but she seemed almost… _nervous._   
  
It only took reaching for another strip of bacon for him to get a good look at her, of her face that was turned _just_ carefully enough away.   
  
Her shoulders went stiff as he leaned in, and he noticed her hands were shaking.  
  
Frowning, he grabbed for her, to which she instantly elbowed him away.  
  
"Bitch, stop," Mickey said with a grimace, catching hold of her despite her efforts. Then he turned her shoulder so that she was facing him head-on.  
  
A moment of tense silence passed, and carefully, Mickey licked his lips. She had a red-purple welt on the side of her right eye, trailing just along her cheekbone and reaching slightly up toward her nose. It looked like she'd tried to cover it with makeup.  
  
And Mickey felt a coil of regret wrap around his insides--that was _probably_ what she was doing when he'd barged into the bathroom and nearly knocked her over.  
  
"Who gave you the shiner?" He asked, letting her go when she yanked her arm back again. He scanned the look on her face--guarded, anxious--feeling his lips curl in.   
  
Mandy was a scrapper--if she'd gotten into it with one of the neighborhood girls, she'd say so. She'd probably shrug off his concern, make a comment about how bad the _other_ girl looked. This was different.  
  
"Don't worry about it." She told him, curt, and moved to turn the heat off of the stove.  
  
And Mickey stood there, working his lips between his teeth, trying to work out what to say next. After a few moments passed, though, he placed a hand on the counter next to her. Leaned into her and asked, voice low,   
  
"Your piece of shit boyfriend hit you?"  
  
A few moments passed. Mandy didn't answer him, just kept her eyes low, avoiding him.  
  
It seemed like forever when Mickey finally moved, his head moving in a slow nod. Then, voice barely above a murmur, he asked, "Want me to take care of it?"  
  
She let out a sigh at that, her eyelashes fluttering closed in a way that made his stomach turn over.  
  
"No," Mandy shook her head, "It won't happen again."  
  
"Fucking right, it won't," Mickey told her, dead serious. 

And he _was_ serious about that shit. He'd be happy to slice a wife beater's hands off if he could get away with it. 

Mickey eyed her for a few moments, thinking and biting his bottom lip. He was angry, but Mandy was a big girl. If she wanted him to lay off-- _this time_ \--because she thought she could handle it, he would.  
  
Although, he _did_ think it was fucking convenient that the fucker would hit her while the rest of the male members of the house weren't around. When there'd be no immediate repercussions for him.  
  
And Mickey might be a small guy, sure. But if Kenyatta was under any illusion that Mickey was _alone,_ he was dead fucking wrong. He knew people that would beat the shit out of any dude that hits a woman. Even if it was just for the   
  
He back-burner'ed the thought for now, though, as he pushed away from the countertop. He took a few steps into the dining room, his eyes falling on Svetlana as he did so. 

He noticed that she had a hammer laying next to her right hand, and he squinted at it, curious.  
  
Coming around to her side, Mickey gestured to it. "What's with this?"  
  
"I use it to chase off King Kong." She said, not skipping a beat.  
  
Mickey was a little taken aback by that. Shit, where had _he_ been? "You did what, now?"  
  
She looked up at him then, in a way that let him know she was positively bored. "He push Mandy against wall. I tell him to leave, or I bash his head in."  
  
Then she just _shrugged._  
  
And Mickey couldn't help himself. He started to _laugh,_ a low little snicker escaping him before he could stop it.  
  
"No shit?" He asked, the slightest bit giddy at her admission. The thought of his tiny, 5'9 pregnant wife going after a 6'4 giant had him tickled to _death._   
  
She gave him a small, self-satisfied smile in return, to which Mickey nodded, impressed. 

Alright then. Svetlana was a fighter. He almost wished he would have known that before--he might have felt a little warmer about her. 

But then again, he supposed, he still _did_ have a lot of shit to learn about her. They hadn't exactly had a coffee-sit-down before they'd done the dance a kneaded a biscuit out of it.   
  
He'd never love her--maybe he'd never even get to a place where he _liked_ her that much. But at least at that moment, he thought that she was at least okay.  
  
\--  
  
After he'd showered, shaved, and gotten dressed that morning, Mickey had headed down to the Alibi.   
  
Though when he made it in a little past 11:00, he hadn't really expected to see an urn shattered on the floor. 

No sooner than when he entered, he stopped, watching as a powdery gray dust cloud floated up toward the ceiling.  
  
Kev and his wife Veronica were standing near the bar, frozen in place, looking down at the scene with wide eyes. Tommy and another bar regular, Kermit, were doing much the same from their stools. 

Meanwhile, the man who had smashed the urn couldn't have looked more pleased with himself. He stood off to the side, huffing a satisfied sigh as he brought both hands to his hips.  
  
Mickey watched the guy, eyeing his gray hair and the single diamond stud in his left ear. He wore a sweater with a blazer over the top, pressed khakis, and Italian leather shoes.   
  
He didn't seem keen on introductions, though, as he swiftly changed posture and gave Kev a grand farewell pat on the shoulder. He made his exit, giving Mickey a little _wink_ on the way as he passed.  
  
Mickey's body followed him as he brushed past, eyes wide, feeling the street thug in him rile a bit.   
  
His eyes snapped over to Kev, baffled. "…who the fuck was that fag?"  
  
"That was Stan's son, _Alan,"_ he heard Tommy say from the bar.  
  
Pointing to the dust pile, Mickey asked, "Is that Stan?"  
  
"Yep," Kev answered him, high-pitched and quick.  
  
"Damn." Mickey started as he unraveled the scarf around his neck. He skipped a few beats before asking, "...you just gonna leave him there?"  
  
And as if he'd doused the entire room with cold water, everyone straightened. Veronica was the first to react, as she turned toward Kev and rested a hand on his chest.  
  
"I'll get the broom, baby," she said before hurrying off toward the back room.  
  
Mickey stepped a few feet closer to the scene, observing. He scratched idly at his cheek before turning around toward the bar. He silently hoped Stan's ghost wasn't a vengeful one.  
  
"We just uh, had the will reading," Kev was saying.  
  
"Went well, huh?" Mickey cracked, stealing another glance at the pile.  
  
"Oh yeah," Tommy chimed in, taking a sour sip from his beer. "Real well,"  
  
_Obviously, from the look of Stan's ashes spread out on the floor,_ Mickey thought darkly.  
  
"Put it this way," Kev started, running a hand over his mouth. "The apple fell kinda far from the tree on that one,"  
  
"Yeah," Tommy huffed a laugh. "Hated him enough to leave Kev the bar,"  
  
Mickey, who'd been reaching over the bar for a bottle of Jameson, stilled at that. He turned around. "No shit?"  
  
"No shit," Kev answered, absolute, as Vee came back with the broom and dustpan.  
  
He looked over just in time to catch her wide smile. "That's right, my baby's a _businessman_ now," she said proudly, as if she wasn't about to start sweeping up someone's remains.  
  
"Yeah, but now I gotta figure out a way to pay Alan $500 a month for rent," he sighed, then clarifying when Mickey gave him a thrown look. 

"Only way he'd keep this outta court," he made a face, shrugging with his hands.  
  
Mickey tilted his head in an 'ah' motion as Vee continued. "We'll figure it out," she said reassuringly, looking up at him through her dark lashes as she swept Stan into a neat little pile.  
  
"Yeah, be easier to think about if I didn't have twins on the way,"  
  
_I feel you, man,_ Mickey agreed silently, thinking of his own kid on the way. Thinking about money and how he was going to provide it.  
  
And then, as if out of a movie scene, Mickey felt a lightbulb go off over his head. He arched his eyebrow, following Kev's tall frame as he ducked behind the bar.  
  
Mickey leaned in closer, looking up at the other man. "You own the bar now." He repeated, imploring.  
  
Kev nodded, looking a little proud. "Yep,"

"And the upstairs apartment is empty now?"  
  
"…yeah, man. Why?" Kev asked him curiously, setting both hands on the edge of the bar and leaning on his weight.  
  
A wicked grin flashed on Mickey's lips, making the other man squint at him. "Listen. I think I got an idea how you and I can both make some extra cash."  
  
\--  
  
And that's how Mickey ended up with seven whores in his living room.  
  
"Alright ladies, pick a spot, make yourself at home," Mickey said as he ushered them inside. He watched as they all took places on the couch and adjacent chairs, meanwhile looking around the house with scrutinizing eyes.  
  
And out of the corner of his eye, he saw Svetlana appear in the doorway of their bedroom, dressed down in a gaudy, red-and-gold satin bathrobe. 

He turned to her, watching as she took in the busy scene in front of her. Mickey had just been about to explain when she shot him a poisonous glare.  
  
"What is this?" She asked, her arms crossed as she walked up to him.   
  
"Goin' into business with Kev at the Alibi," Mickey told her. "He has an empty space upstairs, so," he gestured to the girls, "We're gonna set up shop. Hit Sasha right where it hurts."  
  
The look he received in return was pure horror. _"We're_ setting up shop?" She emphasized, before bringing a hand up to cover her brow. "What did you do?"   
  
In return, Mickey shot her a look and gestured to the other women. "The fuck you think? I went to the Garden Spring Spa, and I took 'em."  
  
It honestly had been too easy. After he'd finished talking over the gameplan with Kev and Vee, Mickey had marched in, guns blazing. He'd knocked out the receptionist at the front desk, banged down all the doors, and took six girls with him.  
  
Svetlana, however, didn't seem impressed.  
  
"You... take them." She repeated, disbelieving.   
  
Mickey nodded, absolute. "Yup. _I'm_ running this shit now," he boasted,  
"Just call me the Abe Lincoln of mouth whores." 

"What about Sasha?" 

"What _about_ Sasha?" Mickey scoffed.  
  
Svetlana brought both hands to her face then, looking beside herself. "I cannot believe you."  
  
"What's the problem?" Mickey asked, eyebrows stitching together.  
  
"I just find out you take _jobs_ away, and don't tell me!" She yelled, eyes wide. "I make _good_ money, but it's not enough for you! This was _not_ part of plan!"  
  
"'Ey," Mickey was quick to hold up a hand, "Calm down, alright? No one's out of a fuckin' job. Just give us a few days to set up the apartment, and you'll be back to suckin' dick in no time."   
  
She only continued to stare at him, her stone-cold expression burning a hole through him.  
  
Mickey sighed, irritated. "Look, I don't know how this is _escaping you_ exactly, but this is a _good_ thing. I'll make sure you all get paid more, the Alibi will stay busy--"   
  
"And you'll be new pimp with fat wad in your wallet," She finished for him, eyes narrowing.   
  
Mickey chewed at his lip at that, feeling a little like stabbing his own thigh.   
  
"Okay yeah. Sure." He brought a hand up, thumbing at his eyebrows out of exasperation. _"My_ fat wad that'll end up feeding _your_ kid."   
  
Glaring at her, he continued, "Do you not get that we're _all_ scrounging for cash around here? You think dealin' drugs and sellin' guns is doin' it for us right now? Pretty sure that money's better in _my_ wallet than in Sasha's, but _okay,_ have your fucking attitude,"   
  
His wife gave him a murderous look in response, and briefly, Mickey wondered where she'd put the hammer. 

She didn't move, though, except to take an exceptionally long inhale of breath. Mickey watched her shoulders expand before she blew it out in a long stream out of her nose.   
  
"Fine."  
  
And then she was done with him. She turned to the other women in the room, yammering away in Russian and seemingly intent on ignoring him. Mickey took it as a win.  
  
Before he could reset and get back to business, though, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

Mandy's bedroom door was open. And he knew that Mandy usually worked her shift at a diner right about now, so really, he wasn't surprised when he saw Kenyatta standing there. He'd been watching, _listening_ to Mickey and his wife fight.

And was watching him still, unashamed.

"The fuck you looking at?" Mickey challenged, sporting a glare that could cut glass. 

It wasn't so much a question, or even him being angry that someone had been watching him. More so, it was an opportunity for Mickey to let him know,

 _I know what you did, Fucker._

And even if his only intention had been to rubberneck at the scene playing out in the living room, Kenyatta seemed to understand. 

They stared each other down for a few moments, alpha to alpha, sizing each other up. And Mickey might have been the smaller of the two, sure, but reputation was a _hell of a thing._

Kenyatta was silent, and the air was tense, both men ready for whatever came next. But as the next few seconds ticked by, Mickey watched, still as a stone, as Kenyatta backed out of sight and closed the door. 

_Good choice, Meatball,_ Mickey thought. 

\--  
  
Not surprisingly, Svetlana wasn't happy with him. 

She'd taken to giving him the silent treatment, which had extended over most of the evening. And she'd been committed, vindictive enough to even cook dinner for the girls and not offer him any. 

Not that it bothered him much--her cooking was eh at best--but it was still a gaping reminder that he was _married_ now and that women fucking _sucked._  
  
Whatever. He'd live.

After he'd finished getting in contact with a distributor to help supply the Abili, Mickey had sat down in front of the TV. He was happy enough to watch season four of Big Mouth, stuff his face with junk food, and enjoy some time to himself. 

He'd eaten half a bag of chips and two bowls of Captain Crunch already, not that it stopped him from wanting another. And the roof of his mouth may have been raw and scraped to death at that point, but. Oh well. 

He was still zoned into the TV when he'd poured himself a new bowl and headed back to the couch. And even though he felt seven eyes following him as he did so, he didn't pay any attention. 

Although maybe he should have. He'd made it about half-way down into his seat when the shrew finally decided to talk.  
  
"Turn on news, we want to watch," Svetlana ordered, and he halted a little, before sitting all the way down and turning in place. 

And because he was a proud asshole, he did a shocked, over-exaggerated take at her.   
  
"Oh, you're talking to me, now?"  
  
That just earned him an unintelligible spit in Russian, not that he expected much else.   
  
_Pregnant Witch,_ he griped, before grabbing the Roku remote.

He found that the channel was already on the local news when he switched over to the antenna. And he wasn't that keen on watching, but he quickly decided the thought of getting up was a straight _nah,_ so he stayed put until he actually felt like moving. 

He watched with disinterest for a few minutes as a blonde-haired, blue-eyed anchor finished up a story about some kid who brought a knife to school. Mickey yawned at her serious tone because, well. _Yawn._

Before too long, though, the text on the screen changed, and her entire demeanor seemed to shift with it, making Mickey quirk a curious brow. 

He read over the screen, instantly confused and not sure how to react at first. 

_Teenage Boy Becomes Pregnant, Commits Suicide_

What the fuck was this? 

Meanwhile, the anchor was starting,  
  
_"Tonight, we offer our condolences to the family of 14-year-old Carter Miller, who took his life last week after learning he'd become pregnant. In his final letter, he revealed that he'd been abused by a family member, who is now under police investigation..."_  
  
Mickey's mouth was open, eyebrows up to the fucking ceiling. Somewhere along the line, he'd dropped his spoon into his lap.

For a while, he could do nothing but simply stare at the screen, equal parts of shock and horror flooding in his system like ice water. Related stories were running all across the screen, along with reports, the number of known cases, and resources for testing--all in a bizarre, overwhelming flurry of information. 

Slowly, he turned in his seat, turning his gaze over to Svetlana. 

"This shit for real?" He asked her, feeling more than a little freaked out.

She gave him a bored stare before nodding. _"Da._ Been all over news for weeks," 

"For fuck's sake," Mickey complained, more to himself than anyone else, and turned back to the TV. 

Weeks, she'd said. And he was just _now_ hearing about this shit? 

But then, he remembered, maybe that was what Iggy had been trying to tell him about yesterday. Maybe that's why the guys at the Alibi had been pointing and babbling at the TV. 

Mickey blinked, feeling like an idiot. 

Swiftly, he set his cereal down on the coffee table and dug his phone out of his sweatpants. He opened up Safari and did a quick search for _Male Pregnancy._

What he saw made his jaw hit the floor. It was everywhere. There was a whole section on Google dedicated to it, just like the screen of his TV. News articles, statistics, symptoms to look out for. 

_Holy shit,_ Mickey thought. _Holy fuck,_ this was real.

Idly, he grazed over some of the symptoms, his eyebrows knit together and a twisting feeling pulling a knot in his stomach. 

_Nausea. Fatigue. Mood Swings. Food Aversion. Frequent Urination._

Mickey's shoulders tensed as an unpleasant thought sprouted in his head like a giant thorn.

It was quickly wiped away, though, as the front door burst open, making him jump in his seat. 

He looked up to see Mandy step through, stomping the snow off of her boots as she unzipped her coat. He eyed her, watching her as she hung it up on the rack and adjusted the sleeves of her sweater.

She looked a little worse for wear, tired from work, and out of breath from the cold. 

"'Ey, Mandy," Mickey started, getting her attention. He gestured to the TV with his thumb. "You hear about this shit?" 

Mandy crossed her arms and sniffed, taking a few steps into the room. Her head craned over toward the TV, and she nodded.

"Yeah, everyone has," she answered quickly, before adding, "You haven't?" making Mickey frown. 

Damn. 

Had he seriously been _that_ consumed with his own misery lately? So entrenched, he'd had no room for anything else, including being clued-in on _the most fucking outrageous shit to happen, fucking **ever?**_

Mickey's frown turned into a grimace. Of course, he had. 

At some point, Mandy had crossed the threshold and sat down next to him on the couch. Mickey had been so engrossed in his phone, he hadn't even noticed until she spoke. 

"Mickey," she started, cautious. 

"What?" Mickey asked, jumping a little for the second time that evening.

 _Jesus, get a grip._

"What the hell's going on in there?" She whispered, hooking her own thumb towards the dining room.

Mickey curled his lips. Oh. Yeah. _That._

Swiftly, he gave her a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's business, don't worry about it." 

"...hope they're not _sleeping here,"_ she implored, making Mickey give her a slow little sideways glance. 

She huffed a sigh when he did, muttering under her breath. "Fuck's sake," 

"Few days, nothin' major. Don't worry about it." He told her again, brushing off her irritation, and went back to tapping at his phone.

Mandy must have decided that giving him attitude wouldn't amount to anything, because she let it go. She leaned over to look at his phone, glancing at an article he had up. 

"Yeah, crazy, right?" She started, yanking Mickey's attention away. "They're saying it was some weird birth control pill caused it."

Mickey shot her a baffled look. "How the fuck's that work?" 

"Mm. They're saying the company that made it used ingredients that they weren't supposed to. _Really_ fucked with the mother's systems. Didn't even prevent pregnancy." 

Mickey squinted at that, thinking. What in the actual _X-Files bullshit_ was this? 

"So, what?" He started, staring at her. "Because of this _pill,_ boys were bein' born with _vaginas_ and shit?"

Mandy shook her head. "No. Just like, the uterus and tubes. That shit."

Mickey didn't exactly know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind. 

"That's fucked."

"Seriously." Mandy agreed, settling back into the couch to leave him to his devices. 

The screen switched to an interview setting with a woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She was crying, and dabbing her eyes with a mascara-streaked tissue. Carter's mother, presumably. 

And Mickey watched her talk about her boy, feeling his heart clench a little. 

\--

They switched back to Netflix sometime later. They began watching some over-dramatic show that Mandy liked, Mickey meanwhile trying his hardest to ignore the anxious fluttering in his chest. 

She'd been on her phone intermittently, switching between Snapchat and iMessage every few seconds. It was only after she'd looked checked it for the dozenth time that she looked over at him, licking her lips.

Mickey rolled his head over to her, curious. "What?" 

A few beats.

"Ian texted me yesterday," she said finally, making Mickey raise an eyebrow. 

"Oh yeah?" He said in return, cool, even though he could feel the heat rising up his neck. "How's he?" 

Mandy shrugged, looking thoughtful. "He said he's good." 

Alright.

"Good for him." Mickey shrugged, as if he couldn't feel a blanket of strained silence drape over them as he did. 

Mandy didn't say anything back, just continued watching the show with a little crease in her forehead.  
  
\--  
  
That night, Mickey didn't sleep.   
  
He'd spent a few hours scrolling through his phone in the dark, his mind racing a little more with each passing minute. He'd thought that reading more would help tame his wild thoughts, but so far, it'd just done the opposite. 

What he'd seen on the news had really freaked him out. It'd planted a seed in his mind, and it had him thinking. _Worrying._

He'd been going over the different pregnancy symptoms for a little while now. Studying, checking them off in his head, trying his best to discount them.   
  
_Nausea. Fatigue. Mood Swings. Food Aversion. Frequent Urination._

Hearing about Gallagher had really set him off in a wild string of events. He couldn't help thinking it. Couldn't ignore the words in front of him. But also, he didn't want to _acknowledge_ the possibility. 

And he wasn't about to admit it out loud, but he was scared. Scared, of what he'd been doing on the down-low and the _implications_ of it. 

Because before Svetlana, the news he'd was going to be a father, and his subsequent marriage, there'd been Ian. 

There'd been Ian, a stupid, red-headed ginger fuck with kind eyes and a goofy grin that made Mickey's head go a little fuzzy.

He didn't like to think about it anymore, about the strange three years he'd spent sneaking around with him. It wasn't a matter of admitting it to _himself._ He knew who he was and what he liked. Ever since he'd been 8 years old, he knew. He just wouldn't ever say it out loud.

And so far, the most significant repercussion of who he was had been getting _caught doing it._ But what if... 

_Nausea. Fatigue. Mood Swings. Food Aversion. Frequent Urination._

Mickey set his phone down on his chest and rubbed at his eyes. What if... there were more? 

It was crazy. And there was _no way_ some shit like this could happen to _him._

But. 

He was thinking. He was worrying. What if? 

Mickey's eyes blinked open in the dark. _What if?_

He couldn't deny that he'd been out of it lately--tired, throwing up, moody as all hell. He'd been trying to write it off as stress or some obscure flu bug. Literally, _anything_ other than his current crazy, worried thoughts was fine. 

Even still, as he tried to reassure himself, he felt his stomach _twisting._ An awful, paranoid little feeling had wormed its way into his guts, and he couldn't stop _thinking._

Huffing a sigh, Mickey pulled the covers off of himself and sat up. 

He looked over at Svetlana, who was fast asleep facing him, before swinging his feet to the floor. He made it to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and fumbled with the lock on the door as his eyes adjusted.

He came to stand in front of the mirror, scrutinizing himself. He felt like a total fucking Loony Toon. 

He just. He _had to know._

Steeling himself, Mickey opened the cabinet below the sink and dove in. Amongst half-full bottles of shampoo, scummy bars of soap, and Mandy's _necessities,_ he found the box of pregnancy tests she hidden in the back. 

He sighed when he flipped open the carton, relieved to find that two were still inside. The one thing he was _not_ about to do right now was go lift some and risk getting caught. 

_No fucking way_ was he doing that. 

He sighed when he found the instructions insert, happy that at least he wouldn't have to _guess_ how to use the damn things. Not that it could be _too_ complicated, right? One line for positive--or maybe it was one line for negative? Or did it just say yes or no? Were there colors? 

Mickey groaned as he read over the instructions, feeling as stupid as it gets. This was so fucking _weird._

But okay. It wasn't that bad. Just piss on the stick, keep upright, don't turn upside down, and put the cap back on. Results in three minutes. _One_ line for no, _two_ lines for yes.

Simple enough. 

He felt awkward as fuck as he took the foil wrapping off one of the tests, looking down at it as if it was an alien probe. When really, it was just a small, unimposing, plastic _stick_ that scared the shit out of him.   
  
_Whatever. Just don't think about it._   
  
He made quick work of the test, and a few moments later, he snapped the cap back on and laid it on the counter, as the instructions had told him. 

He watched it for a few moments as the liquid traveled past the little eyelet, feeling the heaviest weight settle in his chest. Three minutes was a really fucking long time, he realized.

Chewing his thumb, he set a timer on his phone and sat on the edge of the tub. He busied himself with checking several different apps, even though he was too nervous to really focus on anything. At least it kept his hands busy. 

When the timer finally went off three minutes later, he found himself just sitting there, his whole body tense. 

He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he blew it out and stood. He leaned over the counter, his heart doing a thick _thump thump thump_ in his chest.  
  
With a deep breath, Mickey looked down at the test. 

And then he blinked. Once, twice, his hands gripping the countertop.   
  
There were two pink lines. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyy. So um, I should probably explain where I've been. I can't apologize enough for the long wait--nearly six months, are you kidding me??--I was sick for a long time, and just flat didn't have the mental energy to write. Chronic fatigue is a thing, guys. Take care of yourselves! I'm making good progress on this now, though. My goal is to post chapter 3 by the end of the month.
> 
> Also, some notes:
> 
> \- While this fic is set in season 4, I'm going on a present-day timeline. It's just easier to write in the little details without trying to remember what the heck was going on in 2014, lol!
> 
> Also, thanks so much for reading, you guys. It means everything to me, you have no idea. Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> _In the next chapter,_ We learn more about the past. Also, Mickey has to make a decision on what to do.


End file.
